


Haunt

by callunavulgari



Series: Dark Month Collection [77]
Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 14:02:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21100655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/pseuds/callunavulgari
Summary: Ryan couldn’t remember a time when the world didn’t believe in ghosts. When the veil lifted in 1992, he was still only a baby. So he doesn’t remember a time when it wasn’t completely normal to see a man with his heart cut out riding the train, or an old lady with vomit still streaked down her chin walking the park.Even while growing up, he’d never really caught on to the fact that the world was changed. The television programs that hotly debated why the dead had made themselves known were boring. The religious extremists on every block were wack-jobs. The ghost hunters… well, the ghost hunters were sort of interesting, but less so than they probably were before the event, beforeeverybodycould see them.Here is how the world coped with the dead: they ignored it.





	Haunt

**Author's Note:**

> Day 19 of October. Prompts were: hallowed guests, death, hunger, purgatory, cobweb, monsters, trap.
> 
> I was going to continue this in Shane's perspective too, but I ran out of time and also managed to get hung up on the logistics of ghost sex. So. You know. I posted as is.

Ryan couldn’t remember a time when the world didn’t believe in ghosts. When the veil lifted in 1992, he was still only a baby. So he doesn’t remember a time when it wasn’t normal to see a man with his heart cut out on the train, or an old lady with vomit still streaked down her chin walking the park.

Even while growing up, he’d never really caught on to the fact that the world was changed. The television programs that hotly debated why the dead had made themselves known were boring. The religious extremists on every block were wack-jobs. The ghost hunters… well, the ghost hunters were sort of interesting, but less so than they probably were before the event, before _everybody_ could see them.

Here is how the world coped with the dead: they ignored it.

People moved on, eyes shifting away from the dark-eyed ghouls drifting along the roadsides. They walked faster whenever they noticed that the person standing next to them had bled out from their wrists a long, _long_ time ago. Everyone knew about them, but everybody _pretended_ that they didn’t. The world didn’t like change.

The years stretched on, and the dead grew hungrier.

Ryan was eleven when a girl in his class was kept out too late because her parents were arguing, and got eaten in a 7-11 parking lot while they weren’t looking. There was a lot of panic that year, a lot of rumors, but all Ryan could remember was that she’d used to share her textbook with him whenever he left his at home. She was nice, and then she was dead.

Curfews went into effect. It became common knowledge that if you were out when the sun began its slow descent towards the horizon, you might as well have been courting death. Restaurants and stores shifted their closing times. Bars shuttered and closed when the daytime locals weren’t enough to keep the business afloat. Even the police didn’t leave their station if the sun was down.

That was the year that the cobwebs started appearing on windowsills and over mirrors. It was the year that they realized they couldn’t go on ignoring the dead forever. If you didn’t feed them, they grew hungry.

So that’s what they did. When Ryan’s parents cooked, they would double their portions, and whatever they couldn’t eat, they would leave as offerings on the front stoop. Ryan would lie awake at night, terrified, listening to see if he could hear it when the dead began to eat.

He never could. But he never stopped listening for it either.

He is twenty-four years old when Shane finds him.

Shane is tall and lean, with a face that see-saws between kind of goofy and undeniably intriguing. He wears plaid and jeans that hug his thighs in all the right places.

It takes Ryan more than three weeks to realize that he’s dead.

Because the thing is, the dead might walk the earth, but everyone knows you can’t hear them. Sometimes, if you’re watching them for long enough, you’ll be able to read their lips when they mumble stuff, but you need special equipment to actually _hear_ them.

But Ryan can hear Shane.

The first time he stumbled into him, it was on a crowded train. The car was so packed that people were squeezed in next to each other, sardine tight, and Ryan had just given up his seat to a sad-faced grandmother when someone leaned in and murmured, “That was awfully nice of you.”

Ryan laughed it off, shrugging. He was - _discreetly_ \- checking the guy out, the plaid, the long legs and narrow face, when he replied, “Not really.”

The guy narrowed his eyes, leaned in a little closer, until he was well within Ryan’s bubble, and said, “Yes, really. You could have been an asshole and pretended she wasn’t there. Most people would.”

Ryan shrugged again, uncomfortable. “Wouldn’t have been right.”

“Well, huh,” the guy said, and then, “Shane.”

“Oh.” Ryan blinked, wondering if this was the part where he offered his hand to shake. But he had a briefcase in one hand and the grab handle in the other, so he settled for a smile. “Ryan.”

He’d seen him around town a lot after that. At coffee shops, in parks- for a little while, he’d even considered the idea that Shane was stalking him. But Shane was disarming, and had a sick sense of humor that matched Ryan’s perfectly, and he was fun to talk to.

Looking back, he’s not sure how he missed the reactions of the people around him. How people would flash him horrified looks before hurrying away or studiously ignore him when they couldn’t leave.

And then came the day that he was late getting home. The train had been delayed, and getting out of the station was an absolute madhouse. Everyone was scared, and it was late, late enough that no one even considered mob mentality, and the very real possibility that they may have been condemning someone else to death in their rush.

He was on the street to his apartment building, panting, shirt damp. No taxis were out that late, so he’d had to run home, only now he was walking, because there was a stitch in his side, and a lady in pointy heels had trampled his foot getting out of the subway.

He was so close.

The streetlamps came on above him, and Shane appeared at his side.

His eyes were a little wild around the edges as he grabbed Ryan by the arm and shook him, hissing, “What are you_ doing_ still out?”

“Trying-” Ryan had huffed, too exhausted and scared to even consider why Shane was out too, “-to get home.”

Shane nodded, but even as Ryan watched, his eyes were refocusing on something just past his shoulder. Ryan chanced a glance, and to his horror, found three distant figures approaching. As he watched, a fourth turned off a driveway a couple houses down the road, and started towards them.

“Lean on me,” Shane told him, and Ryan had, because there was no _time_.

Together, they hobbled down the street, fast, and then faster, until Ryan was leaning most of his weight on Shane’s shoulder. The walkway to the apartment was crowded with leftovers - Chinese take out boxes and bowls of still steaming curry, slabs of meatloaf and heaping bowls of mashed potatoes. He nearly trampled it all in his haste, fumbling for the keys at his side, Shane bent over him, hissing in an urgent whisper, “Hurry, hurry, hurry.”

Ryan found them just as the first of the figures was approaching. As the key slid home, a girl with half her head missing opened her jaws wide, her eyes going black as pitch. She reached for him, and then Shane was shoving Ryan through the door and slamming it shut behind him.

Ryan stumbled on the threshold, and knows that he’d gasped or something. But when he spun around to stare out the window, Shane was watching him, his eyes bleeding darker and darker. The girl ignored him, turning her attention to the offerings, and as Ryan watched, more and more ghosts joined her. All of them ignored Shane standing there.

Then, as Ryan watched, Shane had smiled sheepishly, and bent to pick at the offerings too.

“So, you’re dead?” Ryan asked the next morning. They were both standing on the sunlit stoop outside Ryan’s building, dozens of bowls cluttering the ground around their feet. They were empty, the food long gone, only some bits of noodles or streaks of dried mashed potato remaining.

Shane looked at him for a while, then shrugged, “Yeah. What’s it to you?”

“You didn’t eat me,” Ryan said, straightening his spine. Firming his voice. “I want to know why.”

He’d seen the stories. Little Tara from his class hadn’t been the first to be devoured by the dead, and she definitely hadn’t been the last. The news reports were full of them, shaky cell cam footage of thrill chasers not running fast enough, or the after photos of gory red crime scenes, where if you looked closely enough you could still pick out bits of flesh and bone.

Shane’s brow crinkled, and he had the audacity to actually look wounded. “Because you’re my friend,” he’d said, like it was that simple. And then, as if the situation weren’t surreal enough, he’d grinned a little and said, “You know, fish are friends, not food.”

“Are you quoting Finding Nemo at me right now?” Ryan asked, eyes wide in disbelief.

Shane cackled, because he was not normal, and shrugged. “Maybe.”

“So you aren’t going to eat me?” Ryan asked, because he had to be sure.

“I’ll try not to,” Shane told him, an earnest expression on his face. Then, he smirked, real slow, and leaned in close, closer, and whispered, “No promises, though.”


End file.
